


My Duty

by angelkat



Series: [collection] Rival Argentica (2014-2018) [1]
Category: The 39 Clues - Various Authors
Genre: Amian, Angst, F/M, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:47:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21800416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelkat/pseuds/angelkat
Summary: In which Ian's forced to choose between his mother and Amy Cahill./formerly called Antithesis on FFN, reposted Dec 15, 2019. not edited
Relationships: Amy Cahill/Ian Kabra
Series: [collection] Rival Argentica (2014-2018) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570921
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	My Duty

* * *

Whitechapel Road.

The East End had once been the underworld of London's most malicious of vices and Whitechapel was its filthiest corner—an antithesis to its divine, misleading name. It was historical and infamous, not because it was the birthplace of a revolution or a martyr, but because it was once the den of crime and poverty and grisly hell, where disease and immorality had once roamed the streets and the few, pitiful shillings in the women's skirts were the pittance of prostitution.

But the 19th century was past and this was the now. Still, though, everything the Cahills have ever done was to keep reliving the past, and perhaps that was why they always went around and around in pointless _circles_ , never getting anywhere. Whitechapel may have lost its filthy brothels, but it is still where the social working class could afford only the cheapest of English hotels. A storm pelted down upon the night of the busy Whitechapel Road, the thick, unmoving traffic dominated by the tired, slumped workers impatient to get home already and the unfortunate tourists grumbling about getting stuck under this wretched weather.

And it is their exhaustion and frustration that blinded them from noticing that a blur had just run past their car windows—a teen hankering for breath, battling his weakening legs, his handsome face pinched with desperation and his usually immaculate hair and attire completely dishevelled and drenched by the unforgiving downpour of rain.

His heart was beating under violent accelerandos, a whirlwind of fear gripping him tight and _pushing him forward—_

Forward, towards the light of her tearful green eyes, her pleading face, her beckoning voice, her face that of an angel who had fallen so far that she had come to the point of desperately _begging_ for the serpent's help. He imagined her, saw her, heard her, _felt_ her—

_Save me. Save me._

_Ian,_ please—

" _Save me!"_

* * *

Amy was running away from them, clutching the precious piece of old, crumpled, yellowed paper in her hands. It contained information that would be very crucial for her triumph in this hunt for the 39 Clues—for the triumph that would justify that his sacrifice was not to be in vain.

But then the thought of him pricked her eyes, forcing another round of fresh tears from her already puffy, red-rimmed orbs. Oh, no. Not _again_. Don't cry. ' _Please,_ Amy, for the sake of you, don't you dare _cry_ —'

But she couldn't help it. Because how could she? He was her _brother_. And he…

_He…_

Oh, Dan.

_Dan._

And all too suddenly, she was so overcome by that painful grief that she almost burst out into tears right then and there— _almost_ , if it wasn't for the surge of desperation to just keep running for her life. The Holts—they were all after her, _after her_ , her and the vial of the Ekaterina serum. She was hungry, she hadn't had any sleep, all she wanted to do was take some rest, but still she _ran_ , her adrenal glands dry and parched. Even if she had no complete faith that she'll even be able to live through this severe, infernal torture, she had to keep living for him, _him_ and remember, always, the sacrifice he made.

' _But you know, just think about it._ 'He is grinning, like a mischievous elf with a prank under his sleeve—and Amy smiles faintly at the reminder of this old Dan that she'd begun to long for. He sits beside her, and then tilts his head up to look at the stars. ' _The Starlings have brains. Jonah has fans. The Kabras have money, the Dolts, strength. And then, who else? Irina, yeah, well, she had experience, and Uncle Alistair, microwave burritos. '_ Amy giggles and a smirking Dan continues. ' _We're just two kids who always believed they had nothing. But look at where we are now._

' _We're the leading competitors of the Hunt, and all of 'em morons are trying to go after us. Because, you know what? We have something special that they don't have.'_

' _Something special, huh?'_ Amy smiles. This is getting too sappy for Dan, but she is glad that he'd risk sappiness just to lift her spirits up a little. ' _And what is that? Our unity? Our siblingship? The fact that we make an awesome dynamic duo?'_

" _Nope.'_ He grins. _'My sheer AWESOMENESS.'_

Her eyes started to well up with tears again, but this time, the grief didn't weaken her. It motivated her, pushed her forward, propelled her legs to keep running forward, past the lit houses and through the dark, cobblestone streets of Whitechapel, far from the traffic but trapped in the labyrinthine maze of crowded houses. And then she stopped suddenly, panting when she came to a crossroad.

Where should she go? Right? Or…

No time to think. She pocketed the little piece of crumpled paper, which was now damp with sweat from her hands—and she took off, to the left.

But as soon as she did, regret punched her in the stomach and caused her to stumble back like the floor was just suddenly ripped out from under her. Because suddenly, there he was, there _he_ was—

"Amy Cahill."

…Ian Kabra.

She took a trembling step backwards, her eyes bloodshot, her senses alarmed.

"I…need to go."

But before she could step away and make a run for it, Ian had already taken a hold of her arm. "The Holts are taken care of, so there's no need to hurry."

She slapped his hand away from her as if his touch burned.

"No," she said, her voice determined and strong, but also raspy and vulnerable. "Stay back."

He drew his hand back to him. Then he patiently closed his eyes, took in a breath, and then opened them again. "I am not here," he slowly enunciated, "to hurt you, Amy Cahill. I'm a friend." He took a step toward her, but he was cautious, careful, as if he was afraid that he'd shatter this fragile china by the mere force of his touch. But once the cold fingers of his right hand actually made contact with her warm, flushed cheek—

She backed away, blushing angrily, blinking rapidly from a trance she didn't even know she'd been plunged in. "Wh-what _do_ you want?!"

The outburst suddenly seemed to make him realise his place, so he cleared his throat, looked away. He put his left hand into his left trouser's pocket a bit awkwardly and murmured the words that knocked the wind out of Amy's sails.

"I know where…" He cleared his throat again, as if merely saying the words was inner torture. "…where your brother is."

From Ian Kabra himself, the words were so uncharacteristically…small. Timid.

But she heard them nonetheless, and perfectly.

" _What?!"_

"I told you." The impatience was suddenly clear and sharp in his words, bringing back that usual gleam of imperiousness in his eyes, both that were so amber, and _very_ Lucian, as if it offended him that Amy could ever dare doubt him. He took a step back to respect her need for distance, but there was that tone, that slight waver in his voice, that touched his words with such a sincerity the existence of which was hard to deny. "Amy, please, believe me. I'm not here to negotiate or manipulate. I'm merely…telling the truth."

Amy was frozen and she was staring up at him, immersed in the cacophonous battle of angry, inner voices that was slowly tearing her sanity up from inside. How would Dan lash out on her in this kind of a situation?

_DON'T. I tell you, he's lying! He's done it before, and he could do it again!_

_But people change…_

_HELLO! Remember the Korea alliance?! He doesn't_ care _._

 _Maybe_ Ian _cares now! Maybe he's lying still! But for you, it's worth the risk—_

 _AMY!_ Listen _to yourself. You actually want to go and risk yourself and trust this…this…_

"…treacherous snake."

Both her hands suddenly flew to her mouth to prevent the words from coming out, but it was too late.

"Of course," he replied, coolly flicking off a speck of imaginary dust from his refined Harris Tweed. "Call me what you will. It doesn't matter. What matters to me is that you listen to what I say." He took a step forward, this time not out of discourtesy but because he had to keep his voice low, like he was sharing her a secret no one else knew but him. "I do know where he is. And I _can_ take you to him. I have formulated a plan to—"

The beginnings of a pained, mirthless laugh exploded from her throat, and she pushed him away, her hands against his chest, making him stumble back. "Oh, don't give me that, _don't_ give me that, because I'm n-n- _not_ falling for it. I know what I saw! They took his corpse! Dan is _dead! Dead!_ Okay? _"_ She spat it out with an emotion so bitter that it shook her entire body, so she whirled around and turned her back to him, just so he wouldn't see that a fresh round of grief had come surging toward her like a tidal wave.

But he did see her shoulders quake, see her lift her arm to wipe the tears with the back of her hand, heard her stifled sob, felt that she was soon going to break completely. And then there was suddenly the urge to comfort her, to tell her that he had this under control, that it was all going to be alright. But…

That would be too hypocritical of him, the irony too laughable and the mocking humour all the more too painful.

So he refrained from doing anything.

Once sobered up, Amy straightened herself. _No_ , she told herself. Stop it. No _crying_. Not in front of such an enemy. "You're…you're lying." But the hope inside her was a betrayal against her words. She knew that he knew that the waver in her voice was a sign that she hadn't completely given up on him, in her brother. Maybe he _was_ alive. Maybe Ian _was_ telling the truth. However, she was too much of a coward to actually show the _hope_ , because she was afraid of the emptiness it would leave once it was shattered. So what she did was state the fact head on.

"D-Dan…he is…."

She drew in a breath. "Dan is _dead_."

"No, he's not," answered Ian, his tone direct and leaving no room for doubt. "Merely incapacitated. He's held captive by one of my mother's thugs in the deepest underground floor of the Royal London Hospital, not very far from here. It's a Lucian stronghold, so do not worry about how we could get there. The important thing is, I can free him. I _can_ free him, but that is only possible under one condition."

He looked at her into her eyes. It took him every last drop of his remaining his willpower, but in the end…

He managed to say it.

"I need your help."

She did not turn away, or scoff derisively. Instead, her eyes were boring into him, wide and green and fragile—but suddenly very hopeful.

"H-How do I know…that you're telling the truth?"

…and at that, something, _something_ flashed through his eyes, a fleeting sort of emotion, the tiniest glimpse of pathos, but Amy didn't know what to make of it.

Was it the passion of truth?

Or the guilt of a lie?

He took her hand in his, and looked her in the eyes, so sincerely that it was _really hard to doubt him._ And she surprised herself by actually letting him hold her long fingers, tiny and delicate in his own.

"Amy. I…need you to listen to me. I have to tell you that…that…"

And then suddenly he was at a loss for words. It was a sight so unusual because _this_ was _Ian Kabra_ —confident, authoritarian, straightforward, not pathetic, uncertain, daft.

"I…I don't _know_ …how to say it. But my mother. I…she…It was she. She… _made_ me…" Then he clenched his fingers, elicited a silent, frustrated curse from under his breath, clearly not used to being under this sort of stress. "Look," he said instead, "I have to tell you that you need to go quickly while she—"

A warning rang in his earpiece.

" _I thought I told you not to go off from the script."_

"We…have to act quickly." Ian's grip on Amy's hands slackened, internally exhausted from all this. He let go of her hands, and he looked away. "But of course, I completely understand that you don't trust me."

But it was at that very moment that Amy made the decision.

She put a hand on his shoulder, and nodded at him.

_For Dan._

"Okay. I trust you."

Ian, shocked, turned his pained amber eyes at her green ones that shone with hope—and suddenly, all his senses fled him and left him with a ringing emptiness.

"Take me to him."

* * *

She was too pure, too innocent, too kind and too generous—

She didn't deserve any of this.

It was all his fault, his fault, _his fault—_

But he was going to correct it, and he was going to save her.

Fear gripped his heart now that he realised how dangerous the situation really was.

Jack the Ripper. Damiano. His _mother._

They were really going to kill her.

_Don't._

He prayed to every god, saint, angel, fate, power he no longer believed in, and he begged them all, begged them all for _mercy_ —

Don't _let him touch her!_

* * *

' _I trust you.'_

That was what she'd said. That was what she'd said, wasn't it? And he could do nothing but simply stare at her.

After everything that had happened to her in this Clue Hunt, had she learned _nothing?_

He wanted to tell her that no, _no_ , you shouldn't trust me, you _shouldn't_.

But he knew that it was beyond his power to do anything about it.

He looked away, avoiding her eyes, and led the way with a stride that was misleadingly firm and steady and focused ahead. "Come. This way."

And he hated that she didn't resist. He hated that she simply followed him, hated that she would ever trust him again. Her fair naivety was a quality he admired in her, but now he _hated_ it in her.

All his Lucian self could do was hurt her, maim her, and manipulate her—

—he'd never have the chance for redemption, the worthiness for her trust, the power to overcome his inherited stain to truly love who he loved.

They passed through the giant, wrought iron gates of the Royal London Hospital, Amy walking after Ian and ignoring the people who were just exiting now that the visiting hours were almost over. The sky above was grey and dark and threatened a thundering storm, and the scent of the wind was touched with the cold sentience of rain. Ian sauntered into the lobby and headed straight for the elevator. Once the two were within alone, Ian proceeded to punch a series of keys—

_L-3-2-9-4._

And they ascended. Which, in turn, confused Amy.

"Um…" She felt her heart pounding. Why did it suddenly feel so… _wrong?_ "I thought…Dan's underground. You said that, right?"

He didn't answer. So Amy looked at him, curious. But what she saw—

— _were dead amber eyes._

The girl chose to ignore that sensation of a shudder running up her spine. She bit her lip and decided that it would probably be best if she told her imagination to simply shut up.

They reached their destination, the elevator car beeping to signal their arrival. And once the doors hissed open obediently, Amy was revealed to the presence of a giant French… _an Italian_ man in a formal suit, wearing darkly tinted sunglasses and the _holster of a gun on his belt_.

What Amy unconsciously did was to inch closer to Ian as if he could protect her.

"Um…Ian…? I think we have to—"

"Damiano." He gave one, firm nod to the Italian man. Then, Ian Kabra seized Amy Cahill by the shoulder harshly, and pushed her to the ground like a rag doll where she almost ate Damiano's shoes hadn't she been caught by the man.

Amy's eyes were wide and green and fragile—and _shattered_. Horror descended upon her face as she suddenly realised that she once more was the rat that had fallen into the pit of a snake.

"You…you _tricked_ me?" There was a crack in her voice, a warning for another onslaught of tears. "But I _trusted you!_ Why?! _Why_ are you so _evil!_ "

_I…_

… _I don't know._

 _I don't_ know _._

"Master." It was Damiano, addressing Ian to yank him back into reality.

Ian closed his eyes, then looked away. He walked past the two of them, assuming authority from there on out. "Let's bring her to mother, shall we."

Past mahogany walls and rosewood doors they went, Amy being urged forward by the barrel of a gun that she felt Damiano pushing at the back of her head. Eventually, Ian came before a door with the painting of an English monarch put up beside it.

A portrait. _The_ portrait. Of Queen Victoria. Dated 1887.

Amy gasped once her eyes fell on the magnificent painting. It almost looked like Her Royal Majesty herself was still alive, standing now right before her, and she could still practically feel the imposing power from her eyes that must have made even her bravest knights tremble. And yet, despite that, they were…lonely. Amy knew that by 1887, it had been almost three whole decades since the passing of her husband, Prince Albert, and the grief had eaten her so much from inside that the Queen had neglected public duties and never attended to the poor slums of London even if they'd cried out for her. The sadness was so sharp, that despite this being just a painting of a woman who died nearly a hundred years ago, Amy felt it, what it was like to live a long life—such a long, Cahill life.

Amy had been studying much about the last Hanoverian ruler of England these days. The clues to the Clue included much of the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland's indirect yet apparent involvement in the Lucian-Cahill underworld—

 _And the Ekat serum_ , she reminded herself to bring her wandering mind back to focus. _That's what they want, Amy. Don't let them have it._

Once Ian turned the golden, intricately-carved latch of the door, he pushed it inside, and stepped into the room, the sophisticated tapping of his shoes against the floor an intimidating sound that made Amy want to _run._ But she knew that with the gun behind her head…

"Move," commanded Damiano, and she felt the barrel pressing. So she followed after Ian obediently, stepping into the room with as much courage as she could muster.

And then she saw her.

 _Her_ , the woman of her nightmares.

Damiano stepped outside to close the door, leaving her completely alone with these ruthless snakes.

"My, my. We have company." Isabel Kabra stood from her throne-like chair, with her children just standing silently from behind her. Amy felt herself shrink as the woman approached her. "Would you care for tea? I can fetch some for Damiano if you want."

"No, thank you," said she, with a bit more boldness than she would've ever imagined herself to have. "Why don't _you_ help yourself to your own poisoned tea."

Isabel's face remained bored. "Hm. I guess that should surprise me. So you've grown a tad less of a fool, haven't you?"

She remained quiet, hoping that it would give her even just the scraps of dignity.

Isabel let a mocking leer grace her lips, shaking her head as if amused by all this. Then she straightened herself. "Ian."

Amy saw her throw something dark into the air into the direction of her son, who fumbled to catch whatever it was. His eyes widened when he realised that what he was actually holding in his hands right now was a gun.

Not a dart gun, which could simply poison and be reversed with an antidote.

It was a _gun,_ which could seriously injure and kill.

He was confused and horrified at the same time. "M…Mother? What shall I—"

"Point it at her."

Natalie noticed her brother tensing up from beside her, clearly uncomfortable and hoping to disobey that direct order. But she knew that if he dared object, he would be punished. So at that very moment, she decided that it would be well worth it to step up, be bold, and bring the shame to her grave.

"Oh, mother!" she enthused, feigning delight and pleasure, even clutching her small hands to her chest for emphasis. "Please let _me_ do the honour! I shall gladly—"

"No."

"But Mum—"

"Do you need me to repeat myself?"

Natalie stepped back in fear once her mother's eyes sharply met hers.

"N…No, mother. I…" The girl bowed her head, fiddling suddenly with her fingers and timidly staring at the ground like a child being scolded for breaking the vase. "I heard you perfectly clear."

Isabel was satisfied. "Very good. Now," she nodded at her son, "do as I say."

He'd already fit the gun into his hand and the mask of nonchalance onto his face. "Of course, mother."

"Excellent. Now, Amelia Cahill. To business." Isabel encircled Amy, each delicate step of her red heels against the marble floor a daunting sound echoing against the walls. And then, stopping right behind her, Isabel leant close to the girl's ear, and whispered these cold words:

"Give me the serum."

It had infuriated Isabel deeply that it was Amy Cahill, of all _peasants_ , who had gotten to the treasure first—especially since London was practically a _Lucian stronghold_ in itself for Gideon's sake. It was a miracle that this supposedly incapable wretch had even managed to survive in this den of predators. It was a wound to her pride that could only be healed by making this girl suffer for spoiling her general mood and making her frown more frequently than she had to. Wrinkles were the worst, and the girl was going to pay for it.

"I…I d-d- _don't_ …" She took a deep breath. "I don't have it."

Isabel instantly saw through the lines. "Mm-hmm. Then where is it?"

Amy was desperately trying to keep her knees from knocking, but she told herself to stay firm and hold her ground until the end. "I…I have no clue. Y-you could even s-s- _search_ me if you want—"

"Already done."

Both heads snapped to Ian, who had started to step towards them, and fished out from his left trouser pocket something familiar. Amy's eyes widened, and she took a peek inside _her_ pocket, but saw that the old, yellowed paper was already gone.

"What?!" She glared at Ian, but the emotion in her eyes was not just that of anger—it was a melange of disbelief, shock, and the outright hurt of being betrayed. _Twice,_ in less than an hour. "But…but how… _when_ …Ian!"

By some unconscious urge, she had decided to leap at him to snatch that piece of paper back, but it was his turn to slap her away, and he then pointed at her the gun to keep her silent.

" _Don't_ ," he snapped, his eyes cold and sharp and dangerous, "touch me like we're friends."

Isabel, like the sadist she was, had an entertained smirk on her face, her long, red-manicured fingers rubbing her chin in mild approval of her son's pleasantly cold behaviour.

"But _…"_ Amy's heart was already so emotionally tired she didn't know what she felt anymore. " _I…"_

_I thought you told me you're a friend!_

He scoffed. "Silly girl."

_You're safer if I wasn't._

"Well, Amy," said a very thoroughly amused Isabel, her words stirred by a mocking laugh, "do you _really_ want to know how dear Ian had managed to get—" she snatched the paper from Ian's fingers— " _this_ from you?"

An emotion flashed through his eyes. "Mother. I prefer you not to—"

"He must have stolen it while you were distracted." The woman took a step closer to Amy, smirking. Oh, how Isabel _loved_ playing this little game.

"And he must have done it…"

"Mother, honestly, you don't have to let her know—"

Amy's eyes widened in horror as Isabel's cold fingers touched her cheek.

"...like _this_."

_And she had completely fallen for it._

She took a step back, her hand now clutching protectively on her cheek, _horrified_ , feeling like a total fool under the smirking eyes of Isabel Kabra.

So. He hadn't done it as a form of endearment.

He hadn't done it to _trick her_.

What had she been _thinking?_

"No… _no_ …"

Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid._

She was crumbling under the utter harshness of this mind game, the psychological knives digging deep and killing her with every stab—and she cursed herself, _cursed_ _herself_ , for being so foolish and gullible and naive and just so utterly _stupid_.

Ian looked away, clenching his fists by his side, unable to bear the sight of her in miserable tears, helplessly sobbing in her hands that covered her deeply shamed face.

"' _Chaos,'_ " began a bored Isabel, casually interrupting the tension in the room like she was at a party and she wanted a toast. "'… _is when the present determines the future, but the approximate present does not approximately determine the future._ '" She droned the words off from the old, yellowed paper that she held between her long, delicate fingers. "'By Edward Lorenz, attributed to Henri Poincaré, Ekat archive, 1887.' Hm. I wonder how this is relevant to the case at hand." She turned to Amy and wasted no time demanding for it.

"Explain."

"I… _I…_ " The broken girl had had enough. "I would rather _die!_ "

But Isabel was unimpressed. "I expected that. But let's see how long you'll last until that charming fortitude of yours runs out. Natalie," she turned to her daughter, "call Damiano."

Ian visibly paled this time, knowing exactly what 'calling Damiano' entailed in this part of her mother's plan.

"Ah…surely, mother, you have other less…brutal ways on how to…"

"Oh, no, I have only the most _enjoyable_ ways on how to extract information. Why, Ian? Are my methods objectionable to you?"

He flinched. "No…of course not, mother. I…I agree with you wholeheartedly."

"Hm. Disappointing. I would have admired a son of mine who dared to question strategies. That is the mark of a true Lucian."

"Really, mother? Because I truly think that the best way to proceed is—"

"Don't push it." He smiled at Ian, who froze under her gaze, and then at Natalie. "Now go, child."

Natalie passed her brother a sympathetic look, and then went her way through the door, and then closed it again. Once gone, Isabel decided to speak once more.

"So, Amy Cahill." She began it with a sweet, motherly tone as if she was going to have to tell her little girl a nice fairy-tale story before tucking her to bed. "I heard from dear Ian that you have a passion for history. Then I'm sure you'll be so _happy_ to witness history happening right in front of your eyes. Do you know …about Jack the Ripper?"

It was obvious from the sick recognition in Amy's eyes that she did. Isabel acknowledged this with a knowing, yet mocking, nod.

"Ah, yes. Of course you do. Jack the Ripper, the mysterious Whitechapel murderer. He's an unidentified English murderer in the 19th century, infamous for his skilful murder of women prostitutes in the poor slums of Victorian London. Do you know what he did? Do you? Well, I'll tell you. He used his jagged, rusty surgical knife to cut open the women's wombs…"

Isabel lingered behind Amy like a hungry serpent, and then made a hand hover over Amy's abdomen.

"…right _here._ And so, blood is spilt. The woman screams and dies, her last sight the horrifying cat grin of our dearest Jack. For years past, the Scotland Yard, which is Victorian London's incredibly inept police force, had come to the conclusion that the identity and motive of this mysterious murderer can never be known.

"But of course, the real story behind Jack's motive isn't so simple. Jack the Ripper was a money-hungry Ekat surgeon who turned to the side of the Prince of Wales. The prince hired him to kill the prostitutes who became witnesses to his secret affairs—and his possession of the Ekaterina serum, which he acquired from dear 'Jack'. If this news spread, why, the Ekaterinas would take action to seize their lost serum back. They would have started a revolution and immediately gained the support of the East End, whose citizens were dying of hunger and no longer approved of Victoria's reign. And you know how poor, filthy people are so easy to manipulate.

"And so, the current Prince of Wales, being a natural Lucian, decided that the best course of action would be to eliminate those prostitutes to prevent all this from happening—of course, with the approval of his mother, Queen Victoria."

Amy's immediate action was a defence mechanism: denial. "The…the Queen…approved the Whitechapel murders? She knew who Jack the Ripper was? But—but that can't be! She was _kind!_ She was a great ruler! She was—"

"A Lucian."

The girl looked so stricken, seen so much of the cruelty of the world, that she felt like she'd suddenly aged a hundred years in just that very instant.

"But…but why…why _kill_ them that way? Jack was already going to take their life! The least he could've done was to let them die silently!"

"Oh." Isabel grinned and took note that Amy was clutching at her abdomen as if she were sick to the stomach. But of course, that vital organ would be the inaccurate term. "So the _ripped uteri_ was bothering you. You're still such a gullible baby girl, aren't you? Grace really was an idiot for even letting you in this Hunt in the first place. You can't even stomach such a simple, common crime—"

" _G-Grace is not an idiot!"_

"—but, well, to answer your question. The ripped uteri? That was just for fun. You know, to confuse the masses and keep them guessing. After all, they _were_ prostitutes, and it was an agreeable punishment for their nightly vice. It was the Queen's idea. Depressed people get the most fun ideas, won't you say?"

"You call _that_ 'fun'? That was inhuman!"

"Agreed. It was Lucian."

"You…you Lucians. _A-All_ of you." She looked at Ian this time, the look on her face desperate, pleading, begging. "Don't you ever get tired of doing this? Of being so _evil?_ "

No flicker of an emotion passed through Ian's neutral face. Or mask.

Isabel smirked. "Why would we, it's fun. But don't worry, Amy Cahill. I'll let you be killed _here_ in the historical Whitechapel, just like the prostitutes who unfortunately got their poor uteri carved out of their abdomens. How horribly exciting. Wouldn't you want that? You'll be a _real_ part of history, another Cahill meeting her untimely downfall!"

The door opened, and in stepped Natalie with the giant Italian thug just right behind her. "Mother, I have brought Damiano—"

The urge to vomit was visible on Amy's wet, terrified eyes, and she was looking straight at Isabel, not paying the newcomers any mind.

"You are so _perverse._ "

Natalie gave a confused look at Amy, then at her mother. "What? What happened?"

"You're too young to know, my dear." Isabel then nodded at Damiano and gave a disgusted look down at Amy. "Take her." And suddenly, just like that, she was being dragged away.

And the horrific image of having her guts spilt suddenly kicked her body to its overused drive to just _live another day_.

"No! No, let me go! Let me _go!_ " She desperately kicked and punched, but all her efforts proved to be futile against this gargantuan who had no mercy. She clenched her fists and turned to her last, desperate choice. She turned to _him_.

"Ian! _Please!"_

And it was that when she'd called him by name that he slowly looked at up at her, his amber eyes shocked and wide.

It mattered not that he'd tricked her countless of times, that he'd pointed a gun at her, that he was the son of the woman who murdered her parents—

But yes, he was exactly just _that_ , the son of a murderer, _not_ a murderer himself.

And he could change. He had a heart. She believed it.

_She had to._

Just before Damiano closed the door, Amy desperately screamed the tearful words before she was permanently cut off from him.

" _Save me!"_

* * *

The desperation to save her was in his eyes as he ran against the wind, against the storm, against the traffic, against his mother, against the _world—_

He shouldn't have let it come to this.

He shouldn't have obeyed his mother in the first place.

_She shouldn't have even trusted him!_

But _he_ shouldn't have fallen in love with her in the first place, should have he?

No. There was no backing out now.

_Wait for me, Amy. I'll…_

_I'll save you._

* * *

The Kabras had long left Amy at the cruel hands of Damiano back at the Royal London Hospital. They were now inside their precious Mercedes in a traffic along the rainy Whitechapel Road, complete with the heavy silence that hung in the air inside their luxurious limousine.

"...Mother." Ian's voice finally broke the silence. It was atypical of him, but he was fiddling with his fingers. "This…this isn't right."

Isabel tried to hide her expression of both revulsion and amusement. _I knew you wouldn't have the guts to leave her there like that._

But she feigned sweetness and honey so perfectly that nobody would've ever doubted the existence of heart beating inside that body of hers. "But whatever is it that you mean, son?"

Ian snapped. Finally. "This isn't right! _Mother!_ If she doesn't tell Damiano what the notes really meant, would he really kill her? Was that what you'd really commanded him to do?"

…Silence. Their driver awkwardly tried to keep minding his business by keeping his eyes focused on the road at all costs, fearing that even the slightest movement will lose him his neck.

"Ian." The motherly face was gone, replaced with the grin of a Cheshire cat. "Tell me honestly. Are you smitten with the peasant girl or not?"

Natalie pretended not to hear by keeping her lips inside her mouth and looking distractedly out the window.

Ian, however, reacted less subtly. " _What?_ Absolutely not! It was simply that I didn't think it was correct for us to—"

" _Correct?_ And now you're lecturing me on morality. Should I sign you up for priesthood now?"

"I'll…" Ian let his hand rest onto the latch of the car door. "I'll get her."

Isabel's face tightened. " _No._ You'll stay here."

"I…" He'd already slid the door open, one foot out into his undecided path. "I _can't_ , I…"

"You wretchedingrate. _"_ Isabel seethed it out angrily. "Don't you dare disobey your mother's order!"

"Then I'm terribly sorry, mother." And with that, Ian stepped out of the limousine. But before he slid the door close—

"Ian, _wait!_ " It was his mother. "Before you go, I have something to tell you!"

The pelting rain was already flattening his hair and making his clothes stick to him, but he looked at his mother steadily through the car windows, the dark, tinted glass pulled down so he could see into his mother's amber eyes.

"What is it, Mum?"

But instead of the encouraging smile, he _partially_ expected…

Isabel smirked. "They're in floor A, surgical room."

_And her words caused a shiver to run up in Ian's spine._

Was her mother _intentionally_ letting him go?

Alarm bells rang frantically inside Ian's head.

But like all fools, he chose to ignore it. "Of…of course."

And that was how Ian Kabra ended up climbing out of the limousine and into the middle of the storm in all this traffic, sopping cold and wet and pitifully wretched as he ran desperately back for the Royal London Hospital. Only a fool would ever dare run through a busy traffic in the middle of such a bloody storm, sacrificing his expensive Prada leather shoes _all for the sake of a measly peasant girl._

Ergo, he was a fool.

* * *

From inside the limo, Natalie watched with sweaty palms as the figure of her brother became more and more distant, eventually disappearing behind the immobile traffic of beeping cars.

"M-Mum? Should I…shouldn't I get him?"

"No, Natalie," assured a delightful Isabel. Her spirits were being lifted. Nothing like a perfect plan with its pieces slowly coming together. "Let's go shopping, shall we? This horrid weather is cramping my style."

* * *

When Ian Kabra returned to the Royal London Hospital, he was panting and drenched in water from head to toe. But, he paid no heed whatsoever to the curious onlookers as he immediately went for the lone elevator, and then quickly proceeded to punch in the digits.

_L-3-2-9-4._

Immediately he ascended and the doors eventually hissed open to show him to floor A, the destination he required. He walked across the silent hallways, each echoing tap of his leather shoes against the marble floor an eerie sound bouncing across the walls. There was the uncanny feeling tingling at the back of his neck that he was being watched, being followed like there was a ghost in the air. His unconsciously frightened mind urged him to quicken his pace until eventually, he broke into a run.

Surgical room. Surgical room. The doors were a blur as he ran past by, but he saw nothing that had the semblance to the room his mother had pointed out to him. Surgical room. _Surgical room._

Where in the name of Luke Cahill _was_ it?

" _Ian?!"_

The voice made him halt. _What?_

He ran back the way he did, and eventually, he found the dark room from where he'd heard the voice call out his name. The door was open, so the light from outside had poured onto the dark room like an ominous spotlight onto the bound victim. When he saw Amy indeed bound on a heavy iron chair, he was nauseated of how frail, how weak, how battered and how thin she looked like with those thick ropes digging into her skin. And suddenly, he was angry at Damiano. His mother.

And Dan Cahill for leaving his sister alone, _blast it_.

This is no way to treat a lady.

Ian saw the irony and smiled at himself bitterly. How dare he indeed, because _he'd_ been practically treating her like scum ever since for countless of times since they'd all been thrown into the hellish fires of this stupid Clue Hunt.

Ian had brandished a Swiss Army knife and he was running to her. Of course, Amy's instinctual reaction was to back away as if in fear.

"Ian…what…"

He immediately got behind her and started on cutting the ropes. "Don't worry, I'm here to help."

"But—" There was barely relief in Amy's voice. Rather, the panic only intensified. "But _no!_ You shouldn't have come! It's a _trick!_ " Once her hands were freed, Amy took Ian's shoulders with a shocking strength she didn't know she had left, and screamed into his face. _"Get out while you can!_ "

And here she was, trying to save him when _she_ was the one who needed it. It frustrated him so much it sickened him to the stomach.

"What on Earth are you going on about?" he snapped, and forced her hands off of his shoulders so he could start working on the ropes on her feet, kneeling on his left knee.

"But—"

"Don't be ridiculous," he cut off. "I shall get you out of here and we'd—"

The bang was heard first. And then the cruel laugh. The slamming of the door shut, immersing the world into darkness.

And then the knife being dropped onto the floor, the sound of a clangouring metal.

Ian felt it in his hand. It was wet, and something trickled, but it wasn't water. It was far thicker, and there was pain, but it was numb, _very_ numb, and—

And the lights flickered into life, blinding them suddenly because it reflected on the stark white walls of the vast, empty room. But once his eyes landed onto his hand…

He saw blood.

He had been _shot_.

And there was Damiano in the doorway, a gun in his hand, the tip of its black hole sizzling, malice shining brightly in his sadistic smirk.

Amy's instant reaction to the blood was to scream and run for his crumpled figure. Ian was holding his bloody hand with his head bowed so low that she couldn't see the expression on his face.

She fell by his side and immediately sought to look after him, asking if he was alright, for him to hold on, that she was here and there was no need to worry—even though she herself didn't believe that, and she knew that with the two of them weakened, they had no chance to live through this day.

But still, she told him that there was no need to worry.

Because he may have been evil, and cruel, and cold-blooded _,_ but—

" _Stop it!"_ she cried, even though she knew that her words were only falling on the deaf ears of this horrible man who only smirked at their suffering. "Stop it, please, just let us _go!_ Can't you see he's hurt?!"

… _but she could heal him._

* * *

And he could strengthen her.

"No. I'm alright."

She was horrified that he could dare say that when there was _his_ blood all over the place. "No, you're _not!_ Would you _please_ stop doing that?"

"Doing what?"

" _Lying!_ Lying to yourself won't help!"

Ian lifted his head this time, but not to meet Amy's eyes. Instead, he stared straight on through the Italian man's dark tinted glasses, his amber eyes bright and furious like that of an angered cobra—the usually neutral expression on his face tipped the balance and now seriously ticked off.

"Damiano. How dare you shoot your own master."

"You're not my master anymore if Madam Isabel commanded me to kill the two of you."

"That's…that's outrageous. My mother couldn't have commanded my…my own…"

And then it dawned on him.

_Could have she?_

Damiano smiled. "An agreeable punishment for a disobedient boy."

His grip on reality was starting to slip off and he was falling into the line past horror. The pain and the hurt were barely there, but it was heard.

"She…she wouldn't say that. She's…she's my…"

"Your greatest nightmare. She knows that you snuck around in her office last two nights to pry on her files. She's a bit paranoid that you found out a little more about her past crimes than you're supposed to, so what my orders are now is simply to eliminate the witnesses." Damiano sneered. "Just like Jack the Ripper."

The mere mention of the name brought shivers down to Amy's bones. And as if he sensed her fear, the man immediately turned his gun to her.

"But of course, I'll give him the chance to live, only if you tell me where the serum is, Amy Cahill."

" _What?"_

"The serum."

Amy was torn. If she gave the Ekat serum to Isabel, then the woman was one step closer to the frightening power she would've used to wreak havoc on the world. Amy would have to be ashamed of herself, because Dan, Dan had _sacrificed_ his life for the serum and she would just end up giving it all away.

But if she _didn't_ give it away, Ian Kabra would be killed under the command of his ownmother. And if she let that happen without doing anything, then she was just as cruel a monster that Isabel was.

"I…" She gulped, feeling terrible of the decision she'd chosen. " _I can't…_ "

The unaffected Damiano cocked his gun and pointed it at Ian's heart. "Alright. I'll kill him first. But why don't you kiss him a good night's sleep before I do so, eh? No? Fine then. Your choice…"

But she realised that she just _couldn't let it_.

" _No!_ "Sheshot up to her feet and protectively stood in front of him. "Okay, okay, I'll—I'll tell you already! I'll tell you where it is!"

Ian growled from behind her. "Amy, you don't _have_ to—"

She ignored him and dared to stare into Damiano's eyes, feigning as much courage as she could even though she was definitely shaking from the inside. "I'll…tell you."

Damiano lowered the gun with a satisfied smirk. "And don't you dare lie. So. Where is the serum?"

"It's… _it's…_ " Amy shut her eyes close. _Oh Dan, oh Dan, oh Dan, I'm so sorry._ "It's _—_ "

" _IT'S CONFIDENTIAL!"_

The doors burst open and suddenly, there was Hamilton Holt with his father Eisenhower and Nellie Gomez _and_ Alistair Oh standing at the doorway, the latter smiling as he calmly leant onto his diamond-tipped cane.

Damiano was not pleased to have new visitors. "What th—! How did you get here?!"

Amy's face broke into a smile, and had she enough strength she would have run into her Korean uncle and tackled him with a hug. He must have received her SOS message—thank goodness she had Nellie's phone with her!—and afterwards he must have contacted her au pair, and then sought for the temporary alliance of the Holts, just for this one rescue mission. At that moment, Amy was just too boneless with relief that she simply stood there, almost in tears.

" _Nellie!_ AndUncle Alistair! You—you really came!"

"That's right, kiddo, I ain't just leaving you here like this!" Nellie had this fighting look in her eyes, the thick make-up on her face a war paint on a soldier. "This dude here told me you sent him a message, so he contacted me and we arranged the rest of the rescue party."

The kindly old man nodded sagely. "A wise choice," he said, "because _this_ is why you need alliances."

"BUT THIS ALLIANCE IS TEMPORARY!" boomed Eisenhower. "YOU OWE US FOR SAVING YOUR LIFE, AMY CAHILL! AFTER THIS, YOU BETTER MAKE SURE YOU TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT THE EKAT SERUM, OR _ELSE!_ "

Hamilton groaned. "Dad, we _talked_ about this…"

In the midst of their bickering, however, Amy shrieked. Everyone's heads turned suddenly, and they all immediately gasped at the sight because Damiano now had his gun on the temple of Amy's head, his other muscled hand gripping her tightly with her hair.

Nellie exploded into mother mode at the sight of her daughter like that. " _Kiddo!"_ Angry, she stomped towards the man, her eyes seeing red. "Hey, _you_ big guy, who do you think you are, huh? You hurt my kiddo or you're _really_ gonna get it—"

"You come here," growled Damiano, "or I'll gut her right in front of you, _using this gun_. So back off!"

Nellie nearly hurled in revulsion, her face beet red with anger and horror. "Why, you!"

"Nellie, _please,_ " said Alistair. "We must proceed with caution. Do you want him to completely hurt your dear—"

"Amy." The rough voice came from behind them, and all looked down and all were shocked because they'd just now noticed that Ian was actually there. And with his uninjured hand, he was wielding a gun. A dart gun.

Amy was confused. "Huh?"

"Duck."

And he shot, his aim precise, the dart sticking right into the man's bicep—and it was just one inch closer to Amy's face, making the girl really pale at how Ian had almost hit _her_.

But it seemed to have no immediate effect to the man because he just plucked out the needle from his giant arm and flicked it away. " _Hah!_ You think you can get me with an ant's bite, eh, _boy?_ "

"That…" Ian smirked. Frighteningly. "…was poison thirty-nine. Carve that eerie coincidence in your mind. It paralyses a full-grown man within 10 seconds, kills within an hour. But," he chuckled now, and _maliciously_ , a really disconcerting juxtaposition considering his bloodied hand and the gun in the other. "…perhaps it will take two in your case." He tilted his head to the side in mockery, angling his eyes so they'd catch the ceiling lights.

"Lucky boy."

Damiano was horrified and he actually took a step back as if Ian had just sprouted demon horns and he was frightened of the boy, because, hell, he was _already_ starting to feel the stiffening of his muscles, and he let go of Amy, his gun clattering to the ground as well.

"Why… _you…!_ "

"Sweet dreams, Mister Damiano."

And so, Damiano finally crumpled onto the ground pathetically.

"You're…just like…your _mother._ "

With that, the Italian man was out like a light.

And Ian was, too; he was exhausted over the little ordeal of having to put up another mask for the last two minutes, but it had done its job, hadn't it? The smirk on his face fell and wilted and was replaced by the true weakness that he felt. Before the rest of his body completely fell to the ground, though—

Alistair caught him.

And then the rest of the room immediately floundered over to their injured, common enemy—and their injured, common family.

There was Amy—

"Does anybody know first aid?!"

Hamilton—

"DUDE!"

_Nellie—_

"Cobr— _Ian?!_ Oh my god, _your hand!_ "

And the old man, Alistair, was holding Ian tightly around his shoulders and was letting him rest on his lap like he was his own son. "My word, child!" exclaimed the aghast Alistair, "What happened to you?"

Eisenhower however, just stood there, not knowing what was going on with the world and why everybody was freaking out over Isabel's son.

"Huh? What? You found the Ekat serum?"

Hamilton facepalmed. " _Dad…_ "

"WHAT?!"

Ian wanted to snap at them for acting like children while he was in the middle of all this misery—how _dare_ they bicker about a stupid serum as he clearly fought for even the mere scraps of consciousness. How positively wretched!—but his annoyance was momentary, fortunately. Because suddenly, he remembered…

"Amy." He put his fine hand onto her shoulder to make him look at her, his hand gripping, but not quite as firm and secure as it normally should have been. He was barely even able to croak it out, his voice weak and rough, but the concern, the worry in his eyes, was glowing bright and strong. "Are you…quite…alright? Did he hurt you anywhere?"

The girl laughed silently and then used the back of her hand to wipe away the tears from her eyes. "That should be _my_ line, but…I'm fine. I'm fine. And, I just wanted to tell you." Amy took Ian's hand from her shoulder and held it in the warmth of her own. She looked into his eyes, her own boring into his.

"You're _not_ like your mother at all. Because you came back to save me." She smiled.

"Thank you."

For a moment, he was speechless.

Then he closed his eyes with a smile.

_My duty._

* * *

Needless to say, Isabel had a volcanic temper.

" _YOU IDIOT!_ How come a giant man like you be defeated by those pathetic children?!"

Of course, Damiano had to come crawling back to his master if he'd wanted to have even the smallest chance to a longer life. "Madame…please…"

Isabel stopped pacing once the man croaked out the pathetic words. "Oh, _right_. You wanted the antidote, didn't you?"

"I…I promise to catch them next time…"

Isabel glared at the man that made even this serial killer wince as if in physical pain. "There _is_ no next time for you, pretty boy. But there will be…"

She smirked as she observed a photo in her hand, a photo that one of her spies had taken with those two together.

"For _them."_

Isabel may have failed in her first time, but she had much more ideas on how to manipulate their young love to serve her purposes. At least now she had solid confirmation that Ian truly _did_ like the peasant girl. This one little test was entertainment at its finest.

The seeds of a plan erupted in her mind. "How pathetic and useful at the same time."

* * *

As usual, Dan was being like a random fart in a solemn church service.

"I was _PERFECTLY FINE!_ What moronic blockhead told her I'm dead?!"

"I told you, I haven't the foggiest," snapped the pretty brunette, her accent noticeably clipped. _"_ She simply assumed that ever since your disappearance—"

"Ugh. What. _Ever_. But she wasn't hurt, right? She's okay, right? Isabel didn't do anything to her, right?"

Natalie was getting tired of this argument. "You know, Daniel, _I_ should be the one using those lines. _My_ brother was shot! And _you_ , in turn, have absolutely nothing to worry about, because Amy is _perfectly_ _fine!_ See?!"

And when she opened the door, Dan became witness of a love hindered by tragedy—

There was Ian Kabra with his injured, bandaged hand resting over his abdomen, and his sister Amy seated beside the dark teen's bed, her head resting on the soft, cotton plumes of the thick white quilts.

And her hand was clutching his.

**Author's Note:**

> "I ship Amian because it seems impossible.
> 
> I mean, their parents don't agree, and they have grown up in essentially two separate worlds.
> 
> Ian is handsome, successful, smart, cunning, and rich. He has it all. Amy is drawn to the suave confidence Ian possesses, so unlike her own shy mannerism. She is like a lamb trapped in the clutches of a devastatingly handsome lion, but she still doesn't let him overpower her spirit which is rare in a relationship like that.
> 
> Amy is also smart, but Ian likes her because of her passion for life. No matter how timid and weak she seems, she also surprises him, and he likes the challenge she presents. She has a grace (Pun intended) about her, and he is shocked that she doesn't hold a grudge against the people (his mother included) responsible for her parent's death. She doesn't accuse him, and he doesn't feel like a failure in her presence.
> 
> And THAT is why I love them together. They are perfect and terrible and twistedly epic. :D"- A Pencil In Her Hand


End file.
